The meadow (Aleksei Ryaskin)

The meadow, like a small Universe,
Contracts, expands, and contracts again.
The meadow is something changing and yet unchanged
It bends between the weight of the sky but does not break.

It bathes in the sunlight, rises to the surface and sinks,
It waves at passing birds with sweet and bitter grass.
It has no secrets, as though on the palm of the hand
But in spite of all that it remains a puzzle all the same.

The agaric has dispersed in the grass and frozen in place.
The old gloomy hollyhock languidly waves its leaves.
A black nanny-goat lies beside the old hollyhock
And counts aloud from one to a hundred and from a hundred to one.

The dandelions stand like crosses, with their white shirts thrown off.
They stand as if turned to stone, and have no interest in bee or wasp
And beside them the clover and camomile are arguing about something
Casting at one another now petals and now pollen.

Ants build empires, dragonflies try to find sorrel.
Caterpillars begin a song in the night, butterflies continue it by day.
The meadow has not one minute for sadness and sorrow
The meadow is absorbed by the life that throngs upon it.

It’s not simple to make the meadow reflect upon happiness
It is content with things as they are, the sky’s colour and its own fate,
It never takes part in debates and arguments
It is in harmony with the world and with itself.